


A Purity of Brokenness

by Gryff_inTheGame



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Breakfast, Cunnilingus, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Romance, Sex, Smut, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 20:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17753285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryff_inTheGame/pseuds/Gryff_inTheGame
Summary: The sun is slowly coming to rise and his world is beginning to end. The fresh roses he had delivered this morning are blooming but his soul wants to wither and fade. He still has Valentine's Day to make it up to her. He still has time, doesn't he? The thought lingers longer than it should.





	A Purity of Brokenness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LaBelladoneX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBelladoneX/gifts).



> Prompt: #68  
> Use the ashtray; don't crush out cigarettes in coffee cups!
> 
> A/Ns: I'm allergic to fluff so this is angst filled flangst.
> 
> Nothing wrong with a little Valentine's day angsty, breaky! I promise you will thank me by the end.
> 
> If you enjoy it, I would love to know! 
> 
> A very special thanks to LaBelladoneX for beta-ing this for me so last minute!
> 
> GiTG X

* * *

A grey mist blankets the city of Paris. The overhanging plants draping the boutique hotel's walls are lightly glazed with a delicate dusting of snow.

The fireplace inside has almost been reduced to embers. Shadows from the diminishing flames dance in the dim lighting it provides. A series of crackles and pops allude to the charming ambiance of the luxurious room, while cashmere scented candles burn on a continuous loop expelling various aromas — amber, bergamot and sandalwood.

On the floor by the fire, curled up on a selection of the finest furs is Hermione, wrapped in nothing but a white sheet. Beside her is an empty space, her body lying next to the remaining groves as though his body is still next to her.

On the balcony outside paces Draco. Oblivious to the chilly weather in nothing but silk boxer shorts and Hermione's Uggs. All those years spent accommodated in the Slytherin dungeons at Hogwarts has him well adjusted to cold conditions. His feet are too big for the sheepskin boots, but he’d charmed the slippers months ago to automatically adjust to fit whenever he wears them.

He frantically puffs at a cigarette, hoping to finish it before she wakes. Nothing about this getaway has gone to plan. The roses arrived completely frozen. Hermione arrived late for reasons he didn't particularly find good enough. Although she was more than apologetic he seems to be unable to focus on anything but the negatives. This entire holiday was a complete and utter cock up.

Draco's train of thought is disrupted the moment he hears the door open. Hermione appears with bushy hair and doe-eyes. She doesn't have to utter a word. Everything is conveyed to him in a single glance. She looks at him, not in question… but searching for answers. Her eyes drift to the cigarette sitting comfortably in his fingers.

Amusedly, Draco brings the ciggy to his lips, inhaling its chemicals, carelessly puffing away at the smoke. Call it disrespectful, but what is a little more fuel to the fire? This ship is already sinking; he may as well burn it to the ground.  

With disappointment, Hermione turns away, the sheet falling from her hips as she retires to the bathroom.

* * *

 It appears the breakfast staff have arrived as the private dining area in their suite is bustling. Set up for the first meal of the day is done.

Draco trudges inside, Hermione's sodden Uggs still on his feet. The cigarette has taken up home between his fingers, sitting there snugly, threatening to torch his relationship with the flick of his wrist.

The dining table spread is elaborate with a variety of eggs cooked many ways. Following is a selection of breakfast meats, pastries and condiments. French champagne awaits eagerly on ice, paired with crystal flutes beside it. Both glasses are empty except for the glittering diamond ring sitting in the bottom of ‘hers’. Immediately Draco holds out his spare hand, summoning the ring. He gently tucks it between a jug of milk and bowl of sugar cubes.  

The cigarette he holds so dearly at his fingertips is placed between his lips while he pours himself a strong coffee. For good measure he pops the champagne too; it’s never too early to chase coffee with bubbles. He heard Theo say this one time and hasn't gotten around to trying it. There's no time like the present.

Hermione emerges from the bathroom dressed in her business clothes — a black sheer blouse, tucked into high-waisted pants and black pointed stilettos. She is, of course, Draco’s art dealer but he doesn't remember them having any business plans for today.

He can tell by the way she avoids making eye contact with him that she's been crying.

“Draco.”

The way her voice quakes with reason, when she says his name, makes his heart tremble.

Fear. He can't recall the last time having felt it, but the fear is growing strong within him today. The sun is slowly coming to rise and his world is beginning to end. The fresh roses he had delivered this morning are blooming but his soul wants to wither and fade. He still has Valentine's Day to make it up to her. He still has time, doesn't he? The thought lingers longer than it should. The unanswered question bores a hole into the back of his mind like a black pit of nothingness.

He glances from Hermione to the cup of coffee. Instinctively, he suffocates his cigarette in the cup, allowing the robust flavors to diminish in the toxicity of smoke.

“Use the ashtray!” Exclaims Hermione in disapproval. “Don't crush out cigarettes in tea cups!”

Draco can't understand why he feels the need to be so defensive. He doesn't entirely know why he feels so vulnerable and he can't explain why his insecurities are making him behave like such a jerk. All he does know is this witch is his weakness but he doesn't want _her_ knowing that.

“Coffee,” he says smugly.

Hermione's eyebrows raise.

Draco replies matter-of-factly, laced with sarcasm. “You said tea cup. The cup’s content is indeed coffee, therefore making it a ‘coffee’ cup.” He smirks in satisfaction, having successfully ground her gears. To top it off, he snatches at the champagne flute, downing its amber liquid in one swift gulp.

His open palm waves in invitation but Hermione declines a seat.

“We need to talk, Draco.”

The seriousness of her tone leaves nothing to the imagination. He can feel it in his gut exactly where this conversation is going. For a moment, his heart stammers. There's a dull ache in his chest that’s unfamiliar and more painful than he's ever known. He regrets drowning his cigarette in the coffee before him. He only wishes he could dunk his head in that cup and drown himself in it instead.

Draco shakily snatches at the champagne bottle — a distraction — aiming to refill his glass, but opts at the last minute to swig straight from the bottle. He offers Hermione the bottle while her eyes peer wide in horror.

Momentarily, he expects a lecture… something to do with alcoholism or his new found addiction to nicotine. Instead Hermione kicks off her heels and gladly accepts the offering, even going as far as pulling out the chair beside him and taking a seat.

He gets a whiff of the fragrance she's wearing. It smells like a tainted combination of the hotel’s lavender scented soap and that Muggle perfume she likes so much — Christian Dior, Jadore. He bought it for her the last time they’d travelled.

They sit in silence, passing the champagne back and forth. It is Hermione who once again speaks up.

“Why are we doing this, Draco?”

He meets her burning question with more silence. It isn't that he doesn't know what to say. He knows exactly what he _needs_ to say. It is the simple fact that if he tells her what he most certainly knows she wants to hear, then it changes everything.

No more secrets. No more lies. No more hiding behind his insecurities, leaving the world open to judge them for being together. Or leaving her wide open to receive hate for dating him. They're long past dating, though. It's been fifteen months. As good a time in their relationship as any other to get serious and make the final commitment.

That same commitment stares him back in the face with a purity of brokenness and glassy, tear-filled eyes. He gulps back the lump of angst sitting in his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing in unison. It never seems to clear, the ball of hurt he just can't get rid of. He knows he should say something. Do something.

“I don't know,” he replies, almost dumbfounded by his weak response. It's not good enough. She knows it. He knows it. And Hermione Jean Granger would be a fool to accept it. True to herself and true to her name, she doesn't.

“Are you really this incapable of giving me a clear indication of your feelings? If I end things right here, right now, will you just accept that and move on?”

Draco drains the champagne, his hands feeling noticeably uncomfortable with the sudden loss of dependency slipping from within his grasp.

“I don't know what else there is to say. If you want to end it, then be done with it. I won't chase you.”

It's the wrong answer. He can tell by the way his heartbeat increases to a rhythmic drum and by the way she begins to sob. His thoughts mean nothing if he can't use his words.

He chooses to use actions and hopes Hermione conveys his actions with words. His eyes are as cold as ice and his facial expression grim. He reaches for her, fingertips gently brushing against her cheek as he wipes away falling tears. The exchange is soft and sweet as his eyes soften for just a moment. He can tell by the way her face moves into his touch, that she caught a glimpse of his true intention.

Hermione’s bottom lip trembles as she holds back a sob. Draco's thumbs trace the outline of her mouth. His hands eventually nestle the frame of her face as he forcefully pulls her toward him, her leg swinging over his chair to straddle his lap.

He's quite prepared to take her, right here, right now, spreadeagle on the table. He'll happily skip breakfast and go straight to dessert if her buffet is open.

Draco is often not a man of many words but his need is as desperate as her want for answers. Her lip trembles again, her sheer lack of speech works in her favour as he initiates a hungry exchange. His lips crash onto hers, his teeth breaking their kiss long enough for him to nibble on that trembling bottom lip that drives him insane. He bites hard, his teeth nipping her flesh, drawing a single drop of blood. She doesn't seem surprised by it, in fact she almost relishes the moment by licking it as her teeth graze the existing nip.

There's a pause between them as if they're both contemplating what to do next. True to the nature of ‘a lady must come first’, a swift swipe of his hand has the dining table’s contents strewn all over the floor. With the temperature between their bodies increasing, Hermione is delighted when Draco makes light of her clothing, her sheer black blouse ripped to shreds before her back touches the table. The crystal chandelier above them glitters, evidently catching her eyes as small flecks dance in the sunlight. He admires her beauty, while appreciating her choice of lingerie. Green lace. Slytherin green, and most definitely a subconscious nod to him. If she was really leaving she wouldn't have thought about that.

Eager to remove her pants, he does just that. His teeth tear away at buttons as he yanks them off. Deciding Hermione is too far away, he edges her closer by gripping her hips, lining her up to the boundary where the table ends and meets his face. He licks his lips in preparation as his mouth meets with the skin of her inner thighs. He trails kisses — warm, wet and precise — hitting all the sensitive spots he knows she likes. Why it’s never crossed his mind to do this, he doesn't know. Having Hermione for breakfast while she tries to break up with him is the most ingenious idea he's ever had. Not only is he as hard as a rock, his ministrations have her begging for it with only a few strategic kisses. He slides her G-string off agonisingly slowly. He was tempted to destroy it like the blouse but decided against ruining his favourite knickers.

“If you want it, you're going to have to trust in our relationship,” he mutters. His voice is deep and husky, “Despite my lack of verbal communication.”

He kisses her again, inching closer to the spot she so desperately longs to have him caress. She thrusts her pelvis in anticipation but he does not oblige. Not yet.

Feeling victorious, his attitude gets a little cocky.

“Just because I don't say what you want to hear, it doesn't mean I don't feel for you. If I didn't, I wouldn't entertain you over and over again.” He bites the flesh of her thigh with the kind of intensity that suggests he wants it to hurt.

“I wouldn't kiss you like this,” he mutters, as he licks and kisses the spot he just bit so ferociously to soothe the ache.

“I wouldn't make your heart pound like this,” he states matter-of-factly, extending his arm towards her chest, freeing her breast from the support of her bra. He cups at her ball of flesh like she is a stress reliever.

“I wouldn't make you want it like this,” he chides, almost comically. Fingers from his remaining hand tease her entrance, now dripping wet.

“I wouldn't pound you like this,” his voice quivers in excitement as his fingers penetrate and plunge into her fiery depth.

She doesn't need to beg him anymore, not when her body responds the way it is to the things he is doing to her. His fingers dive deep, in and out, as his mouth locks with her lips — the ones between her hips.

Swollen with want, he knows exactly what she needs to get there as he swipes and flicks his tongue, feasting on his favourite dish. Draco is greedy, not wanting to stop until she is completely satisfied. He brings her too, twice, thrice, before she insists it is broken and needs his _wand_ to cool her down.

Draco doesn't need much convincing. The table is the perfect height so he has no problem with finishing what he started here too. Insisting on using her legs for grip, Hermione makes stirrups out of his shoulders as he lines up to meet her.

Not wanting to be gentle, he pummels into her, deep and hard and steadily. His pace doesn't quicken for some time. He merely enjoys the face she makes each time he withdraws and re-enters just the tip before immersing her. Her features dance and transition that fine line between pleasure and pain as she begs for him to go harder, wincing slightly when he does. Eventually he can't take it any longer as his pumps remain consistent, hard and fast. It's the sound of her pleasure that makes him come undone. Her panting and moaning, random little gasps and squeaks in response. Everything about this witch gets him off. Surely she knows by experiencing this with him. The passion they've created exists because of the way they feel for each other. He may not tell her but he'll spend the rest of his days showing her if that's what it will take.

Exhausted and gasping for air, he assists Hermione in getting up. There's a pained expression on her face as she grips her aching back.

“I think there's a crick in my back,” she exclaims as she tries to find the source of discomfort. Instead of easing what she considers a cramp, she is shocked to discover a piece of jewellery partially embedded into her skin.

“Draco, what is this?” She asks as the jewellery becomes unstuck, falling to the floor.

They each stare at it for a time, hoping the elephant in the room couldn't be more obvious.

Hermione, stubborn as ever, refuses to give him the easy way out.

“No.”

“No?” He stutters in shock.

“No. If you want me to wear that, then you have to give it to me properly.”

This is the first time in the past fifty minutes she's refused to beg. He doesn't like making his witch upset. He doesn't like it when she gives him this analytical gaze.

With his intentions more clear than ever, Draco bends down on one knee to pick up the diamond ring he carefully handcrafted just for her. He looks into her eyes as he says “You ruined the surprise. It's not Valentine's Day yet.”

“Valentine's Day can come early!” Insists Hermione with a smirk as Draco places the ring upon her engagement finger.

“You still haven't asked me,” she stutters nervously, not wanting to push his buttons.

“I will never ask you,” he delivers cautiously, “ ...but I will continue to show you for the rest of your life.” His statement is honorable and filled with truth as he kisses her hand symbolically. His heart flutters at the sight of his ring on her finger. He sheds a single tear, unable to keep all of his emotions at bay. He hopes she doesn't notice.

Hermione implies that Draco stand. Giving in to her emotions, she delicately kisses away his tear before finding his lips. They embrace as they accept their future together as husband and wife. Living in perfect understanding. Sometimes people have to fall apart to realise they belong together.

 

 


End file.
